


Between Bonds and Binding

by lyriumyue



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Adventure & Romance, Alcohol, Bad Decisions, Bisexual Character, Canon-Typical Violence, Dragonborn DLC, F/F, F/M, Morally Ambiguous Character, Multi, Past Relationship(s), Polyamorous Character, Sex Positive, Smut, Some Fluff, half-altmer dovahkiin, irresponsible dragonborn, some canon divergence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-21
Updated: 2018-01-12
Packaged: 2019-02-05 01:07:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12783612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lyriumyue/pseuds/lyriumyue
Summary: The first time the cultists attack her, it's under Secunda's glow on the outskirts of Ivarstead. That was five years ago. The second time must be a coincidence. Third time's the last straw. If these people are trying to kill her, why are they taking down everyone else? She's had enough.Duvaineth: Dragonborn, half-blooded adventurer, guileless vagabond, face of one of Riften's guildmasters. She leaves for Solstheim, determined to stop the violence. There's enough problems in Skyrim with thedragons. Conveniently, no one seems to know this Miraak. More or less conveniently, no one knowsher.She hires the first mercenary she meets in the Retching Netch. His name is Teldryn Sero.Duvain should focus more on the threats between the pages instead of the threats she wants to hear between her sheets.





	1. Chapter 1

Unfriendliness is no surprise for Duvaineth.

She meets it everywhere in Skyrim, from her first run-in with the Imperials to the disappointed peers of her father all the way in Solitude. In the midst of war, it is to be expected, a certain wariness of strangers, especially those armed and adventuring alone. Who travels alone in these times?

But Raven Rock gives even Windhelm a run for its septims.

The desert coast town looks as desolate as the sailors warned her. All the buildings are the same colour of faded beige, sand and ash encrusted chitin structures easy to miss against the shore. Plants of dull ochre and terracotta sprout between buildings, planks of wood, from under great heaps of black seaweed. It looks exactly like the sketches of Blacklight her father showed her as a girl. Smoke cushions the sky overhead, and she has to squint to see the shadow of Red Mountain in the distance. Already, she feels out of breath. It smells of sulphur and soot. Not unlike the worst of the Ratway, she supposes. Maybe a tinge less of madness.

If the environment isn't enough, as the ship docks on the town jetty a scowling Dunmer in fine clothing locks eyes with her.

"I don't recognize you, so I'll assume this is your first visit to Raven Rock, outlander. State your intentions."

Duvaineth regards him calmly with folded arms as the sailors and the captain set to unloading their shipment.

"An adventurer looking for a change of pace," she replies, rolling her shoulders back to openly display the weapons on each hip. "I'm looking for a man named Miraak. Do you know of him?"

At this, the man frowns and narrows his eyes in suspicion. "I can't say that I do, no, but...the name seems...familiar?...somehow."

"Really?" The guards on the far end of the dock make no movement so she steps out of the ship. "Nothing? The name seems to pop up frequently in Skyrim."

He shakes his head. She can see the way he tries to school his face, tries not to look confused. "No but...I feel it may have something to do with the Earth Stone outside of town? Perhaps?"

Duvaineth shrugs. "I'll take a look. Thank you."

The man turns to leave, apparently satisfied with her answers, and then turns back to cast his untrusting gaze back on her. "Just remember, Raven Rock is sovereign territory of House Redoran. This is Morrowind, not Skyrim. While you're here you will be expected to abide by our laws."

Duvaineth smiles. It is not sincere. "Of course."

The armour on the guards blends almost wholly into the surroundings, a slight metallic pearl finish beneath the dirt and ash-worn edges. Their eyes are obscured by helmets with visors built into them, but she feels the weight of their stares as she crosses the docks and steps onto the soft sand of the town paths.

When she visits the Gray Quarter in Windhelm, she looks like phantom enough as it is - pale skin, dark circles around her eyes and dressed all in black and grey. She stands eye to eye with even the tallest of Nords, and usually an inch or so over most mer. Here, she looks like a human plague among the dunmer, long legs and a white face, eyes rimmed red from the climate. The matte black of her guild leathers stitched tight for her lanky body makes her alien among her surroundings - she scolds herself for not getting the brown ones remade after that mage scorched through her on the road to Markarth. Duvaineth rolls out her shoulders again and stands straighter, tries not to wheeze in the heat and the ash and heads down the path toward the center of the town, where carts and shops surround a covered stone well.

The afternoon conversations drop in volume only a little as she passes, quickly resume once she'd done a loop around. Trinkets, an alchemist's shop, a grocer...nothing exciting. The captain really hasn't been exaggerating.

A mark on the blacksmith's doorframe brings Duvaineth to a stop.

A small smile of relief quirks at her lips and she walks straight to the man working the forge. She watches him heat and work a piece of plated armour, recognizes it as the gold-pearl colour that the city guard wears. She waits for him to finish moulding and shaping, for him to set the piece aside to cool before she speaks.

"It's the briefest comfort that I'm not the only one here missing points on my ears." Duvaineth crosses her arms, leans against the post in the middle.

The Breton turns, wipes an oil-stained sleeve across his brow. It leaves a smudge against his hairline.

"Not that it makes a difference. The mine's closed if you're looking for work." He looks her over with narrow eyes, pausing at the belts, pouches, and the long, tight case stitched into the belt on her hips. The case holding the lockpicking set. "What brings you to my forge? Looking to commission a work of art in steel?"

"Not yet," she replies, "Do you work with ebony or dragonbone?"

"Once or twice," he says, cautiously, "Name's Glover Mallory."

"Duvaineth." She inclines her chin toward the door of his home. "I know another Mallory, in Riften. Any relation?"

Glover's shoulders relax, and he gives her a slow nod. "That'd be my brother, Delvin. You work with him?"

Her smile grows into a suggestive smirk. "We share the keys." At this, he offers her his hand and she takes it with her gloved one, shakes it firmly.

"Nice to see... _family_ out this way. But what the hell brings you to this sorry place?"

"I'm looking for a man named Miraak. Sound familiar?" She hopes a guild contact might be more forthcoming with information, but Glover sits at the grinding wheel with a confused frown on his face. He mutters the name a few times before he shakes his head in defeat.

"It's on the tip of my tongue, something important, but I'm not sure. I mean, I've lived here for years but..."

"Wouldn't be an adventure if I didn't have to skulk and dig for information," she sighs under her breath, "If you hear anything while I'm around..."

"I'll pass it on. I don't do much guild work out here anymore, so I can't make any promises. How's my brother doing all the way in Skyrim? Bastard doesn't even have the decency to write a letter these days. Last I saw him he was set on winning over a vicious young woman named Vex."

Duvaineth laughs. Delvin never mentioned family, but he never mentioned much besides superstition and gold. She can't picture him penning anything but ledger corrections and fraudulent contracts. "He's well. Handles most of the delegation. Hasn't made any ground with Vex, not even a little."

"That's not news. The girls don't come to him for his charm."

She laughs again. "I imagine not." Duvaineth looks across the town center, the shops and their quiet tasking, the guards patrolling with strict movement through the spaces between.

"Talk to me about Raven Rock."

"The ass-end of Morrowind with a crippled economy and people bitter on their luck," he summarizes, shakes his head. "The mines are dried up. Artisan trade and mercenary labour keep this place going. Most of the people here are too stubborn to leave." He gestures to the forge, orange-white and steaming. "I get by forging for the guard, mostly. Bonemold has become a specialty for me over the years."

Duvaineth nods. She also has no idea what bonemold is but knows she'll never even consider it. She's sallow in colour as it is.

Glover nods toward a chitin home on the far end. "If you're looking for leads, check the Retching Netch. Sadri gets all the gossip, and the mercs board up there. He's the only one profiting from this place."

"Retching Netch. Sounds lovely." Another inn, another innkeeper, another roundabout hunt for information. If only the Greybeards taught her something useful, like a shout for finding something that's missing. She wonders if Paarthurnax would find that funny.

She wonders what Paarthurnax would say about this journey at all. He warns her about pride, commends her when she takes the high road, lets prisoners live, finds peace between brothers, uses her voice to bring men together to see the world as it really is. She hasn't been up the Throat of the World in two years, not since the Greybeards tried to leash her and the Blades tried to bend her focus. Paarthurnax would tell her to meditate. She can't anymore. The world is angry and it burns under dragons, vampires, bandits.

The second attack from Miraak's masked followers saw a little girl and her father dead on the road. And then the six guards - not even the Blackbriar kind - floating bloody in the waterways of Riften.

How many more died speaking of Skyrim's Dragonborn with Akatosh's faith in their eyes and Talos' name on their lips?

"Duvaineth?"

Glover brings her back from the memory. "Duvain is fine," she says, "For friends."

She stretches, intent to leave, when a Dunmer carrying a beautiful sword approaches them both, helmet in hand. His eyes are no more welcoming than the one at the pier, but the suspicion passes over her and to Glover seated at the grinding wheel.

"Strange outlander arrives and she goes straight for you, Mallory?" he asks, all baritone, confidence, authority.

Glover seems used to this and his tired smile flashes easily. "I told you about my brother, Captain? Son of a bitch never writes, but I guess she's here doing a job for him." He nods at her. The dunmer shifts her way.

Since that day she wanted to prove Brynjolf wrong in the market, the lying comes easily, no longer throws her off when the guild members slide one at her. "Duvaineth of Skyrim." She smiles, soft, barely there. A guard captain might know more. "Captain...?"

"Modyn Veleth." He's more polite when he speaks to her, but no less suspicious, even as he inclines his head. "What exactly have you been hired to find in Raven Rock?"

"Followers of a man named Miraak have been attacking people back home." She pauses for effect, looks away and lets him see the shift of blades and tools on her person. "They seem to reject Skyrim's dragonborn and those who support the dragonborn. We thought we'd come stop it at the source." _We_ , as if the guild knows she is here. Well, Karliah does, but she's good at keeping secrets, knows too well the cost when the wrong person has them. Usually, at the mention of dragonborn, people get excited, but Veleth seems not to have any care for the title. Duvaineth feels a lightness in her shoulders at the prospect of anonymity. It's been so long...

"Miraak..." The same confusion crosses the Captain's face. "Have you been to the Earth Stone? That's all I can think of."

"The pleasant man at the jetty said something similar." That's three people now who only barely recall the name, besides the sailors. Duvain wonders what she's in for, what power of magic can make people forget and become so vulnerable, so confused, at just a mention. She regrets not stopping in Falkreath to ask her father if he knew. He probably has the story, the legend, and the sheet music to go with it. If only she'd gone there first.

Captain Veleth stares back and forth between her and Glover. "Keep whatever trouble this Miraak brings out of Raven Rock," he says, "And you'll find me amenable to your investigation." He walks away, but pauses, calling out over his shoulder, "What is it your brother does again, Mallory?"

Glover's confidence doesn't waver. If anything, his lazy smile grows. "Something boring, cataloguing assets of the wealthy or some bullshit for the Imperials. Duvain handles the defense."

"Hmph." Rightly so, the dunmer doesn't seem to believe him but he walks away, casually correcting another guard's posture as he passes.

Duvain crosses her arms again. "You don't 'do' guild work and the captain of the guard finds you a point of interest."

Glover gives a wave of his hand. "The girl he's interested in asks a lot about smithing, she's a smart one and gets bored with her father's business. I think that's more to do with it than anything. He can't find what doesn't exist." And then he stands, claps the dirt from his hands.

"Anyway, I have more to work on. If you have any more questions, feel free to drop by."

She nods at the dismissal, walks off the wood and back onto the sand. Duvain circles the market again, sells some small gems and Imperial candies, even some of the Blackbriar mead she packed for the trip to a man named Fethis. He also doesn't know Miraak, but cautiously hints that should she find anything _antique_ in her search, he'd be interested. She wonders if there's anything worthwhile on this ash-buried island at all, but even a partial fence is better than nothing. She prefers to travel light, weighted only by ebony and septims. She goes to the larger farm next, pretends to be interested in the explanation of ash in agriculture, that the Nords really could learn a thing or two. She casually asks about Miraak but they seem not to hear her, and Duvain leaves with a handful of fruit that smell like charcoal and taste like figs. The farmer urges Duvain to meet his wife Milore down the way, the alchemist.

Milore is far more pleasant than anyone here, older than she looks, and she smiles a bit when Duvain mentions she's run some errands for grumpy old Nurelion in Windhelm before he passed. Milore shares stories of her newlywed years in Morthal, working before Ulfric became Jarl in Windhelm, asks Duvain if she's ever met a woman named Anise outside of Whiterun. They talk over a strong, spicy tea, and when the clouds start to darken, Milore asks if Duvain will follow the coast in her time here.

"I haven't really made a plan yet," Duvain tells her, and this is the truth. She can feel the stares of the guards, that they haven't stopped watching her since she arrived --perhaps looking for something to share with their captain.

"I can pay you in potions and ingredients," Milore begins, "If you can bring me netch jelly. My husband and I are too old to hunt them now, and the mercenaries are so rough, the jelly is almost unusable once I get it." A knowing smile. "A woman's touch might work a little better. If it's not out of your way."

Duvain holds back a sarcastic smile. She's cleaved heads from shoulders and force-shouted men into dwemer walls, watched without wincing as their bodies cracked open upon impact on the floor. With fire on her breath she's peeled flesh back from bone just to make a point. Five years ago she beat a man to death with her fists to find her way to the Ragged Flagon. A woman's touch, indeed.

"I'll carry some empty containers and see what I find," Duvain says. She doesn't haggle the price with Milore for the healing potions she has on hand.

If a cultist gets her with a knife it'll be helpful to have a healer on her side here.

It's dark and torches are burning by the time she makes it to the Retching Netch. Entering here she's regarded with the same cautious curiosity from earlier, but a young dunmer working the food and the fire welcomes her with a nervous smile and an offer to look after her, calls her milady without a hint of sarcasm. He promises her stay at the Netch will be one of her best, and that Sadri's sujamma is better than anything in all of Morrowind. He seems more at ease than the poor man fronting Maven's brewery. She smiles and thanks him and heads down the stairs to the noise, to the bar.

The lamps are low but most of the tables are filled --evidently there are more dunmer here than she saw today. A few Nords, Imperials, greying and hard of expression, sit at the long table with a handful of dunmer in various armour. They're throwing dice and making bets.

She wonders if any of them can help. Maybe more drinks will win her favours.

At the bar, one man sits alone, a cup in hand and a clay bottle at his right. His chitin armour gleams under the lamps, almost wet-looking, it's so well polished. He turns his chin only slightly as she approaches, face obscured by shadow and the dancing light of the lamps. She can see running tattoos, a close-cut shave along the sides of his head, and sharp, high cheekbones. He looks back to his drink, no change in expression on his face.

Duvaineth smiles at the man with the long ponytail behind the bar as she settles into an empty seat. "Glover Mallory recommends Geldis Sadri's sujamma," she says, curling her fingers under her cheek. "I have no idea what sujamma is but I trust his judgement."

The man laughs and strokes the greying goatee on his chin. "Glover knows what's good for the soul, miss," he replies. "I've recently perfected the recipe." From the shelf beneath him he pulls out a large terracotta jug and pours her a cup. He pushes it forward and Duvain looks at the liquid, dark and fragrant. It smells like it's going to hurt.

She locks eyes with Geldis and gives him a friendly wink.

When she tips the cup back, she lets the whole drink slide down her throat.

By the Eight, it _burns_ , but the spice and fire runs like silk down her tongue and a giddy numbness follows. It takes everything to smile instead of cough, and Duvaineth sets the clay cup back down on the bar with confidence.

Geldis gives her an impressed nod.

Duvaineth waits for the numbing to wear before she speaks. "How much for the jug, and a set room for the next while?"

The dunmer leans forward, arms crossed on the bar. "How long?" He's still smiling, and she thinks it's sincere, almost proud, especially as he places the jug next to her. He reminds her a little bit of her father.

"Gjalund won't be bringing his ship back before First Seed," she says, reaches for the jug and pours a second cup, "And I expect my business here to take at least that long."

With this admission he frowns, cocks his head slightly to the side as if he doesn't believe her. "Four months? How much can you put down up front?"

This time, Duvain sips at the drink. "The whole thing."

"The whole thing?"

"Mm."

The armoured man next to her shifts some. His body language is open, legs splayed, shoulders easy, but she can tell: his spine is tight, and his hands curl with just enough precision. He's interested in what she's saying, doing. She doesn't miss the elven blade at his side or the belt of knives tucked around his back. They're worn, they've seen maybe as much as her own, but they're in good condition, gleaming, and ready.

"That'll run you for...twelve hundred septims," Geldis says. From his tone, he doesn't believe she'll pay it.

The purse on her left has a little over fifteen hundred worth, from selling today alone. She's delicate in the way she places it next to his hand. "I'll be drinking for a while. Feel free to count it. The extra should cover any news when I'm out of town."

For a moment, his jaw hangs slack and he weighs the purse in his hand as if it's a trick. She sips with her lips pursed just enough, hopes she looks elegant, effortless.

"I'll need the purse back once you've put it away, though," she reminds him, glances through her lashes.

"Y-yes, of course." He nods to a darker corner deeper in. "It's quieter on that side. Pick whichever you like, my lady." He calls for his assistant upstairs, and walks off to a locked room with Duvaineth's worn purse in hand.

Duvain looks to her right, where the armoured man sits.

"This is a far journey from Skyrim, outlander." His voice comes out as a purr. It grabs her faster than even Karliah's velvet gliding speech. For just a moment, she's not thinking of Miraak and his crazy murdering cultists.

Duvain pushes the thought away, gives a shrug with half-feigned carelessness. "I'm not new to adventuring. Just the terrain." She nudges the sujamma jug his way.

He takes the jug with an appreciative nod, refills his own cup. "You must have a guide, then. The ash wastes are not like your frostbitten hell."

"I travel alone, for the most part." She watches him sip at the drink, red eyes watching her, unblinking. Her focus moves from the sharp curve of his lips to his ears, where gold and garnet earrings catch the light. The tattoos on his face slip down his lips, along the line of his throat. She wonders how far down they go before she schools herself back to the _important details_.

Glover said the mercenaries holed up here? "Are you offering?" she asks.

The man barks a laugh. "Hardly! But...for the right price..." He sits straighter and offers her the barest semblance of a bow, tips his drink toward her. "Teldryn Sero, blade for hire. I've called Raven Rock my home for a number of years..." A roll of his eyes and he drinks back the last of the cup. She watches the bob of his throat. "Azura knows why. It's the _worst_."

She pours more into her cup, and his. This game isn't new to her, and she's done exactly zero work into what to expect on Solstheim. "Teldryn Sero." The name rolls easily off her tongue. Duvaineth scoots her chair in closer. "What's your price?"

"Five hundred septims," he says, and his lips curl into a smirk. "Up front." He's barely finished when she tosses a second purse onto his lap. The smirk grows wider, both eyebrows lift.

She stares back, and they both drink in silence for several minutes. Duvain tops the cups again, and the sujamma's burn radiates pleasantly in her stomach. Her voice drops.

"Go on, Teldryn Sero." His name sounds almost as good as his voice. She wants to say it again. "Tell me more."

"Do you have a name, _boss?_ "

Her skin prickles under the leather, the way he drawls on his words, and she pulls a hand through her tangled hair to keep her fingers from clenching. "Duvaineth." She taps her cup to his. "Cheers." Teldryn chuckles and knocks the drink back. Both set down their empty cups at the same time.

Three more, and the sujamma in the jug is gone.

 

* * *

 

She doesn't quite remember how she got from the bar to the bed but Duvain wakes fully clothed and weapons all strapped to her, facedown in the stiff lump of fabric she assumes is a pillow.

Her head aches worse than that time - the first time - she got into blackmarket bloodwine with Vex. Actually, she might even still be drunk - it takes a few tries to sit upright and the world twirls in front of her as she does. This is a new record, the fastest she's drank herself into a stupor in a strange new place. With clumsy hands she feels herself down, but all her weapons, picks, tools, money, are in place. She can already hear Brynjolf fussing over her like a nervous uncle, lecturing her.

_"I've killed literal dragons," she'd say. He'd throw up his hands, she'd roll her eyes and reach for the nearest bottle of mead. "It's fine."_

It's not until a little after that she remembers she's underground and she won't know the time until she drags herself back up to the ash and the sulphur and the sand to suffer with everyone else. And hopefully her hired help with the voice of Aetherius hasn't run off with her money. Nothing pairs worse with a hangover than having to spill someone's blood.

"Defin'ly still drunk," she confirms to herself as the walk to the door happens more as a stumble. Duvaineth sucks in a few breaths, gives herself the peptalk of, _You're the dragonborn,_ _so liven up!_ until she can stand straight. Eating only ash-figs before flirting through that whole jug of sujamma was a mistake.

The tavern is hauntingly silent when she steps out.

The other doors are left ajar, half eaten food and drinks abandoned on the table. No sign of Geldis. Upstairs, the only noise is the fire's occasional dry crack and pop as it dies.

She is completely alone. A sobering realization.

Duvain pats herself down again, takes a stricter inventory: Money. Ebony dagger. Dragonbone dagger. Lockpicks. _Dawnbreaker_. The sword warms against her gloved hand, reassuring, powerful. Her head pounds, thoughts fuzzy, but Meridia's power grounds her, helps her stick one foot in front of the other and climb the stairs up, exit the Retching Netch ready for an ambush.

Raven Rock is dead quiet, dead _empty_ , and she looks around in dumbfound, muddy disbelief. The sky above is dark, blackened ochre and hints of bruised purple in the clouds.

It's only after an uncomfortable shudder that she hears the ringing.

She feels like she's dreaming--she has to be! as she follows the sound, down the path through the market and west from the town. This is madness. Duvain drops to a crouch and flips her hood over her head as she makes her way through the night, following the banging and clanging of metal on stone until she finds it.

A primitive, old rock carved in ruins juts out from the earth. The residents of the mining town are in various states of nightclothes and undress, pounding hammers and pickaxes to the structure around it. She spots Glover hammering away with a steel pick at the earth and Captain Veleth holding up the beam that Milore tethers to the ground. Teldryn hauls away debris wrapped in an old sail. They're all muttering, chanting.

"What in Oblivion..." No one notices her, but they shove past her all the same as if she's a pesky branch, a roadblock, standing in the way of their work. Is she hallucinating? Is that part of the sujamma?

"You're immune?" An older, unimpressed Dunmer in robes stands off to the side, making notes. "Fascinating. What makes you different, I wonder?" He stares at Duvain the way Farengar does, quirks his brow like he wants to open her up and look inside. Her right hand rests on the ebony dagger and she puts more distance between herself and him.

"What is this?" she asks, waves her hand in front of Veleth's face but if he can see her, it doesn't show.

"Who knows," the mage replies flippantly, "Best not touch the Earth Stone, if you want to stay that way. They've been at this for weeks. And no one recalls in the morning. It's absolutely riveting. What a spell!" He resumes scribbling against the small tome in his hand, then suddenly waves her off as if she's interrupting.

Duvain steps through the water around the stone. " _Laas yah nir_ ," she whispers, lets the thu'um vibrate from her chest and throat. In her eyes, the people around her light up warm, hearts beating, blood flowing, spirit living.

The Earth Stone hums. It has a pulse.

In her hand, the ebony dagger glows green and hungry. It sinks into the stone like flesh when she strikes forward as hard as she can. For a moment, she thinks she's broken through its spell as a strange noise fills the air around her.

And then, a man's gentle voice soothes her, everything becomes silent. She drops to her knees and falls forward.

The world goes dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise this is the heaviest pull of in-game dialogue for this story. 
> 
> While most of this story will follow major plot points for the quests in the Dragonborn DLC (and, obviously, spoilers), there will be a lot of changes: mostly lore-friendly but it toes the line pretty hard in some areas. Out-of-game history comes from this 90s kid playing Morrowind back in the day and obsessively collecting every Skyrim publication that Bethesda has put out.
> 
> This one will update 1-2 times monthly.


	2. Chapter 2

_Here do I toil, that I might remember._

 

"Ff..." Duvaineth swipes at the air above her. "Shut. Up."

"Perhaps a touch less sujamma and the hangover won't be as painful, outlander," comes a teasing lilt near her.

How embarrassing! She's made some excellent drunk decisions in the past, but Duvain painfully questions how hideously unattractive she looks after this one. Her cheeks burn as a thousand reparative scenarios play in her mind, followed by _why is he there and not in my bed?_

She picks herself up with an unladylike groan. Her head hurts and her throat feels like she swallowed sand in her sleep. Her fingers and knuckles ache, she wonders if she drank herself into a rage and got into a fight before whatever... _this_ is. She pushes her hair back, hopes she doesn't look as hideous as she feels. There's a comb somewhere in one of her bags, she's sure of it. Maybe she should make like she does in the Ratway and plait her hair back before goingout into that hellscape again.

She's impressed that she's still fully clothed, as her vision corrects and the tumbling waves of nausea settle to a slow roll in her stomach.

Her sellsword stands against her open door.

As Duvain gets to her feet, she tries to play it cool, stretching and flexing out her shoulders and fluffing her hood.

A handful of sand and rock pours out onto the bed.

It all rushes back to her and her hand flies to her hip. The sheath is empty.

"Son of a bitch!" She forgets her upset stomach, her tangled disaster of hair, and pushes past Teldryn to storm up the stairs of the Retching Netch. The tables downstairs are mostly empty and Geldis' assistant wipes down the furniture. She shoves past the guards with complete disregard for their grunts of complaint, and follows the path out of the town. She doesn't even realize Teldryn is following her until he calls out to her,

"Something on fire, boss?"

She stops midstep, swivels on her heel to stare at him. Duvain's halfway to asking him to repeat himself. She can't see his expression through that chitin helmet but her fists and her lip curl all the same, petulance and pride winning over fascination and fancy.

"You don't remember?"

He opens both hands to her in a shrug.

"All of you, the whole town, at that rock outside of..."

Wait, she can't remember either. Duvaineth frowns, looks away as she tries to recall. There's nothing, everything stops between thrusting her dagger forward and waking up in the Retching Netch. Bits of a poem stick out in her thoughts, but only some of the words, and as she tries to recall it exactly, she hears - no, she can't hear it, she feels it - a dragon's rumble in her mind. Warning and wordless but understood. A past enemy, another life.

"I swear we were all there," she says, insistant, "I'll prove it."

And Akatosh help the bastard if that dagger wasn't waiting for her.

Dutifully, Teldryn follows her, only a few paces behind, but as she's entranced with the stone jutting out of the earth ahead, his focus follows the cliffline around them. He's a professional at least, and hopefully whatever she finds here she can convince him this outburst is not simply the result of too much drink and not enough clean air.

The rock stands empty, no sign of life around it, except for the netches coasting over the water in the distance. The foundations of a structure around it are higher, only a little, than she saw it last night. Duvaineth's footfalls grow more careful as she climbs over the beginnings of walls and scaffolding, drops into the pool of water surrounding the rock. The water moves thick at the disturbance, shin high and uncharacteritsically murky.

The wizard from last night is absent, but his comments at least haven't been erased from her memory.

"Don't touch it," she calls to Teldryn and bends one knee into the water. Probably a stupid idea, she thinks about after the fact. If there are eels or strange Morrowind leeches with teeth she'll be spending the night stitching instead of sleeping or coaxing someone else to share with her what they--

It lights green in the water at her touch, laps at her energy when her skinny fingers graze the blade.

"Thank the Eight," she mutters as she stands, glowing ebony in hand. She looks over to the sellsword, standing with shoulders back and a hand lazily resting on the hilt of his sword.

"I was here last night," she says, "We both were. Don't you remember?"

He says nothing to her about it except to tilt his head a little to the side.

He thinks she's crazy. Duvain wonders if she is, then wonders if he's into that. She sheathes the blade with a showy twirl and climbs out of the foundation, careful not to let cape or boot brush against the rock. Not thirty feet out, the netches make a high pitched whine, a pleasant high note that rings above the sound of the waves lapping against the rocks.

She has no jars for their remains anyway, so she lets them sing over the sea and walks back to Teldryn. He doesn't remember, so she leaves it at that, and smoothes her hands over her hair in time with the smoothing of her expression, and stands in front of him with a carefully placed almost-disinterest.

"That affair's done. Let's get some breakfast and you tell me about what I can find around here."

The laugh he makes is muffled under the helmet, and he gestures back toward Raven Rock.

The wind picks up by the time they reach the market, and she hasn't learned much about him except that he's from Blacklight and he's well-traveled. Back in the Retching Netch, the building is full. Duvain says she's going in just to grab a few extra things for the road when the Dunmer grabs her by the elbow.

"Are you mad, outlander?"

She can't hold back the grin. "Please tell me you're not surprised when I say you're not the first to ask that." She makes no move to disentangle herself, but glances down at the gauntlet and the guards on his knuckles, the way his hand almost fully encircles her limb. Teldryn holds her with an easy strength, a warrior that knows exactly the kind of pressure to imply his power without hurting or overstepping. If the posturing isn't enough, she can feel it in the measured way he holds her back, holds her attention. He did not learn to fight only in brawls and field scuffles, and underneath that protective layer of chitin is a man honed to strike at any second. Five hundred gold seems a pale price to pay for that kind of expertise.

"That's an ash storm rolling in," he explains, "Even fully covered, you'll choke. That makes easy job for me, but I rather _enjoy_ the fun of hired work almost as much as the gold."

Oh, the Companions would _love_ him.

He releases her as she turns. His chin dips just slightly, a barely-there motion shielded by helmet and scarf, as her fingers come up to undo the top clasps at her collar.

"Then I guess you'd best find a table, Sero," she says, "And something a little less destructive than sujamma."

His laugh rumbles into what she only assumes is a rolling curse in Dunmeri before he replies, "Sounds good to me, boss."

It's a strange sensation of comfortable and homesick, as she settles into the table Teldryn's taken in the quiet corner downstairs. Helmet, gauntlets, and goggles reflect the lamplight from the far edge against the wall as quiet chatter and stories grow over the clink of glasses and flatware. The Netch is dark, but not dim, and through the lapses of their own conversations about Solstheim she notices the regulars that Sadri's amiable with, and those he merely tolerates. Where his easy nature reminds her of her father's personality, the atmosphere echoes the Ragged Flagon and its slow return to underground opulence.

She can almost picture it now, with business bustling, lucky and vibrant with trade and blackmarket artisans. Delvin and Tonilia in their usual spot, trading stories and the occasional howl from Delvin as Vex and Vipir come back from hazing the new kids. Brynjolf coaxed out of the Cistern by Niruin, who tells him he'll age better with mead in hand and relaxing in a chair instead of leaning over his desk. The other guildmaster will beckon her forward to the bar, and after three bottles of wine and all the guild coming together at the set of dusk he'll convince her they should share a chair instead. Skilled fingers pressing against buckles and belts, teasing along the inside seam on her thigh, whispering _lass_ in her ear, suggesting she lead him away to Honeyside to tell more of her adventures chasing dragons. And then the whisper, _Karliah should be back tomorrow..._

Duvain almost loses herself in the memory of extracting herself from Brynjolf's hold and carefully disappearing.

Five months ago she passed Nightingale Hall to tell a secret and then to leave and she hasn't even written the Guild, except to confirm to Delvin that the operation in Windhelm is going as planned. The fences along the east of Skyrim are enough to confirm she is alive and that's all they need from her for now.

Her hand brushes the mercenary's ungloved one as they both reach for the clay teapot between them. His fingers are scorching against her cold ones. He turns his palm up in a gesture of _you first_ , and she does.

"Raven Rock can't be the only civilized space on this island," she says, turns around in her chair to face him, turns away the vision of home as it lights up in the bar behind her.

"It is right now." Teldryn sprawls across the chair like a bench. Disentangling herself from that lap might be altogether harder so she hooks her ankle around the leg of the chair.

He's paused in thought. "There's an old fortress further south but it's been abandoned since the eruption of Red Mountain."

"An Imperial fortress?" Duvain's understanding of history is less bookish and more rhythm and tune, as songs of Third Era expansion from the Empire come to mind.

Teldryn shrugs. "Probably. It's infested with ash spawn and fire spiders now. Worthless, if you ask me."

"The Imperials are staunch record-keepers." The scalding liquid bites at her lip as she sips. "There might be something useful in there if it's not rotted. I might find some better answers." The dragon's rumble isn't forgotten about among her pining for Skyrim. Something about Miraak is old, old enough that something she's already killed balks at his presence here. The Imperials have all sorts of records they shouldn't about things that are old. This is a fact, from stolen heirlooms shining in the Flagon's cistern, to the books she robbed from Delphine and Esbern before their falling out. If the Imperials could track the history of Alduin, then they could know this, too.

He doesn't look impressed, nor does he look disinterested when he shrugs. "You _are_ the boss."

"Mm, that's right." She leans forward, cup raised. "I could stand to be reminded again. Tell me what to expect with ash spiders and fire spawn."

The look he slides her way borders on irritated, dangerous, until her smirk grows and he realizes she's being ignorant on purpose. She hears the barely-there growl in his sigh as he boredly reminds her that everything here is made of fire so take it down before it sets you ablaze, the end. In this light, at this angle - and the sobriety, that helps too - Duvain notices the hitch in the sharp downward curve of his nose, broken once, reset well. The barest of knicks in his eyebrow where a flat, smooth scar remains.

He notices her staring because he's slowly lowered his voice until he stops speaking. Duvain's dark eyes return to his red ones.

When he arches that scarred brow she's reminded of Breton calligraphy. But he doesn't question or accuse, merely hides a smirk behind the cup in his hand and shifts slightly so he's angled away from her.

"How long can you go without sleeping?" she asks, humming a little into the question as she taps her bare fingers on the table.

He snorts. "A trade secret I'm willing to divulge for the right... _entertainment_."

She actually hasn't meant _that_ , this time, but Duvain puts that tidbit away for later. "You still don't believe what I said about last night."

"I've been hired by enough Nords to know your drinking style," he replies, smooth, like oil cascading over marble.

Hang on, he thinks she's-- "Do I look like a Nord?"

Scarlet stare, laughter in his expression, and the bob of his throat as he swallows it back. He looks her up and down. "You're about as thin as those damned corpses they leave all over the place."

She's been described worse than comparison to a draugr, she supposes. To this she barks a laugh and dramatically places her hand on her chest. "My father will be devastated when I tell him. Now he owes Mama another blade." But she doesn't divulge more even when he leans closer in interest, and coyly she tucks her thick hair over one shoulder. That's how it always happens, and it works in her favour no matter where she goes. The men eroticize her height, long limbs, the exotic strength and the barely-there flicker of magic in her pulse, bewitching, haunting. The mer see a fragile human girl to whom a night together must be an impossible glory and they lead her away to take advantage, be it to press the immeasurable power of the Dominion or the savage ravishing of forest blood and its wild song.

And then it's all thu'um and daggers and pockets full of rubies.

A city guard comes down to announce the storm's abated, breaking her from reflection. Thank the Eight, because she wasn't about to begin a second investigation through a storm to see what happened when the people of the city fell under the spell.

She stands and sets down the empty cup, smooths her hands over thighs as if she wore a dress and not leather. Duvain glances back at him over her shoulder.

"Well, Sero?"

A slight narrowing in his gaze, as if trying to predetermine her impending command.

A single curl of her finger before she saunters away. "Time now to start earning that gold."

The wooden chair scrapes against the stone floor and in two strides he's behind her, close enough that she can feel the heat of his breath and sense the width of his shoulders cutting her off into the doorway of her room.

There's no soot or sulphur in the air here, but her next inhale comes with struggle. She exhales with the barest rumble of dragon's breath in her belly, turns.

Teldryn sets his things on the stand to the left, and closes the door.


	3. Chapter 3

The dragon's will is to conquer, and it punctuates like a baseline rhythm, a second heartbeat to everything she does. The loveless way he grabs at her hip and shoves a hand up between her thighs lights this instinct, and Duvaineth twists in his grip to face him, squeezing her legs tight around his hand as it presses up against her.

A tug, a smirk, and she pulls him over her on the cot.

Teldryn attempts to pin her arms above her but her legs are faster, and she flips his weight easily beneath her, digs her knees against his plated hips. Her long fingers wrap around his throat and press in warning as she leans over him, mess of raven hair falling over one shoulder to curtain them both.

"Undress," she commands, half-hisses, and tilts his chin back with her thumb to watch the throaty growl burning in his throat.

He spreads his legs wider beneath her as his hands reach around buckles and plates to toss them aside to the floor. Using her weight, she pulls him back up to a seated position just to rip away the last of the armour. When he's down to the fitted leather pants and sleeveless undershirt she shoves him back down against the mattress to grind her pelvis down on his, and hums a sigh to the guttural sound he tries to bury behind pursed lips.

Her mouth attacks his neck with a nip and a lick, before she presses her lips to his ear in soft, feathery kisses. Duvain's free hand, the one not holding him by the throat, dances over the taut muscles of his bicep and she rolls her hips again to make sure his attention is on her.

"No kissing, no biting back," Duvain commands, sugary sweet and songlike, "You only use that mouth to tell me how wonderful it feels." Full, adoring kisses on his cheek as he arches into her, and she gives his adam's apple an appreciative rub. "Understood?"

"You're the--" He breaks out in a gasp as her teeth tug on the small ring in his tragus. "--the _fucking boss_." His hand comes around her backside to give it an encouraging squeeze. She pulls herself back up to a seated position and settles back against his hand with a sigh. The ministrations, and his scalding hot fingers feel magnified through the leather. She rotates her hips just enough to guide his hand between her legs again.

His knuckles curl against her, pressing against her clit, and Duvaineth rids herself of cloak and hood in a single motion, tossing it behind her to the floor. She catches Teldryn's wrist with one hand, and slides her other up his shirt, running fingers against coarse black hair and hard muscle. He clenches his stomach at her touch, eyes closing and lip curling in a groan, louder still as she guides his hand to cup her sex as she teases him, sliding her other hand up the length of his torso.

Then her fingers and thumbs give each of his nipples a squeeze at the same time, and he swears to Boethiah under his breath, and pinches his hand back around her ass. His fingers slide for purchase against the leather and come to grip the double-stitched seam instead.

"That's my favourite part," she breathes as his breath hitches and he tenses his core again, her thumbs dancing over the hard nubs. Duvain leans forward, lightens her touch before pinching again as Teldryn attempts to swallow a moan. A soft wiggle of her hips over his, a barely-there press against the hard bulge in his breeches, and she giggles girlishly over his throat.

"What do you want, Teldryn Sero?" she breathes, "To be undressed, or to press me with your hand?"

She doesn't know the word that tumbles past his lips, but she suckles the juncture of neck and shoulder in response. "I'm," a kiss, "A lady, so," a nip, suck, "I won't ruin," a sigh, and her hands run down his sides, "Your clothes," another fluttering trail of ghost-touch kisses down the line of his collar. She sinks her teeth into his clavicle and he keens, loudly, a knee coming up and splaying himself open before her.

Her tone sharpens, dragon's growl a bare echo as she hisses, " _answer me_."

"Shirt," he barely manages and they lock eyes as his arms lift away from her. She's slow, careful, amused, by the process of lifting the garment off of him. Once it's gone, Duvain presses both of his wrists next to his head, slowly massaging her fingers down the length of his arms. She pays special attention to the tensing in his forearms, the way his fingers clench in uncertainty as she explores him.

She looks at him through her thick eyelashes with an appreciative smile, watches the rise and fall of his chest as he tries to center his breathing. Hooded red eyes with dark pupils blown wide try to look through her, and he grunts as she uses her knees to spread his legs further apart. He looks frustrated, but enraptured, flush blooming from cheeks to ears to nipples and a half-smile twitches on his lips. He stares at her face and licks his lips, tilts up his hips in encouragement.

Duvain feels the heat and warmth, uncomfortable and wet between her legs, sticking to the leather, as her hands travel down Teldryn's body again. This moan he doesn't hold back, and he arches in her touch, voice rumbling and needy. She avoids his cock, hard and trapped behind leather and laces, and props herself up instead to unlace herself instead. He reaches for her and she bats his hand away.

"Eyes only," is all she says, and steadies herself on his raised knee while her left hand moves under the fabric, between her legs.

It's hard not to close her eyes, to do it quickly, but he stares at her with lips hanging open, swallowing hard like he can't breathe, as she rubs circles around her pearl and sighs into her own touch.

"Duvaineth," he rasps and she gives a high-pitched moan as he calls her name, his fists gripping the blanket like he's riding out a storm. She slows her touches and pulls her hand away to beckon his forward. He obeys, offering the wrist to her with a hungry stare. She wraps her lips around two of his fingers before she reaches to touch herself again, humming, and sucking the digits back into her throat in time with her own fingers getting her off underneath. Teldryn's entire body is a corded, tight mass of muscle clenching and quivering as he tries to hold himself still, hold himself back from her. He grunts and swears as she whines into her orgasm, leaning her weight into his leg and suckling his fingers like they might save her from the edge.

She releases his fingers with a pop, tongue dancing over her lips as his hand falls to the bed, fingers curling like he isn't able to decide what to do next.

"You look as good as you sound," she sighs, and now both hands are pressing adoringly against his hips, thumbs stroking softly.

"Quit teasing," he growls, a hint of savage rage underneath. He looks like he's about to reach for her, but grips at the blanket instead. The veins in his arms bulge a little at the grip. Duvain leans forward to press small kisses against his cock, trapped in the leather. She rubs against him with barely-there touches of her fingers.

"Convince me," she says, eyes narrowing as her smirk grows wild. "Tell me what you want. Tell me why." Her hands lock him against the mattress as he moves to buck against her, and she kisses the bulge again like she's practicing to kiss a lover. A strangled sound between a moan and a cry breaks from him.

"Mephala's curse, you fucking _demon_ ," comes the hiss in response and he yanks her up by the hair.

Her cunt throbs at the motion, the pain and the tingle it sends down her neck. Her hand slides between his legs. "What else?"

Teldryn's fingers twist harder and he cusses something else in Dunmeri.

"Fill that mouth or I'll do it for you," he warns.

She pulls back against his grip and languidly draws her tongue against the seam in the middle. His head rolls back at the motion and he gives her another helpless tug.

"Is that all, Teldryn Sero?" Laces are pulled forward and she peels the fabric down his hips, halfway to his knees. The grip in her hair lessens as she slides her fingers to cup his sac. Then she pins his legs together with her knees and puts her weight on his legs.

"Hands down, Teldryn," she says. He lets her go, makes a throaty sound and full-body flinch as she gives him a small squeeze. She drags the back of one finger against his cock as precum weeps from the tip and Duvain can't help another appreciative giggle as he exhales and his limbs go limp beneath her. She wonders if it hurts, like this, the waiting. He grunts when she flicks her tongue against his tip, and then swirls it around the tip.

This time when his hand fists in her hair, she can't be bothered to correct him and hums a long, high note as she takes him in her mouth, down her throat.

"Fu... _auuugh_ ," comes the cry from the sellsword. It's punctuated by wordless gasps and the twisting of his waist when her hand massages the rest of him she can't swallow, slow and fast and then barely there as she bobs with the force of his hand at the back of her head.

His aggressive pants and writhing beneath him becomes more wild with each run of her tongue and suckle as she takes as much of him as she can. Duvain's fingers slide back into her own leathers again and she shuts her eyes to moan with his gasps and curses, his begging and pleading between heaving breaths to finish him.

"Du...D-Duvaineth," he stutters in a gravelly voice as his hips jerk upward, and he comes undone hot and salty and bruising against the back of her throat, with a mangled cry to the Reclamations and his fingernails digging into her scalp. She pulls away as he stills, kissing desperately against his hips as she whimpers through her second orgasm, fingers curling inside of herself as she presses against her clit with her thumb.

Eventually the black spots stop spinning in her eyes and she crawls her way back up to his side where she curls against him, drawing her fingers appreciatively against his chest.

"That was good," she praises, cranes her neck to catch his eyes as she licks her lips.

He stares down at her once his breaths settle a little, a mix of horror and arousal-drunk admiration on his face.

"That was twisted," he corrects, panting.

She gives Teldryn a sympathetic pat before sitting up and stretching until her shoulders and spine pop. "Now that this is over with...get up. I want to be there before anyone arrives." Duvain twists just out of his reach and rolls over to land on her feet. She turns her back to him to re-lace her pants, to begin the process of strapping on her weapons and equipment. Behind her, he's quiet, except for the gradual shaking exhale, until the cot groans and he too is back on his feet.

If he's confused, he doesn't share it, and when Duvain finally turns around Teldryn is fastening the helmet and scarf around him again.

With enough time wasted, Duvain settles for a fluffy ponytail held by a thin leather cord --tomorrow a proper braid, then. A hard leather bag is the last piece to be slung across her, hooked in place onto the back of her belt. Healing magic takes more focus than she'd like to admit. The potions boast a disgusting potency, brewed by the young lady Blackbriar for the long journey. As she flips the hood up over her head, she wonders if she should have left the Nightingale leathers in Riften, but it's too late now.

Through the goggles, he's watching her, arms folded and shoulders still once again.

To the rumble in her soul, he's dominated instead of distracting.

The muscles in both eyes twitch and she has to look up wide-eyed to keep the spasm still. Brushing past Teldryn, Duvain's expression shifts to neutral, empty.

Let Miraak try to cast his spell on her again. She'll give _him_ something to remember.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the long delay! A new work contract and very a very demanding holiday period ate up a huge amount of my time. I will do my best to complete one or two chapters a month, still!


End file.
